


this house is a burial ground

by johniaurens



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, Mental Health Issues, Relationship Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 13:30:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6958597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johniaurens/pseuds/johniaurens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Kick me,” says John, and it could be a joke but it isn't. It's not. Something dark in it. Something too real. He's not trying to pass it as a joke. He <i>thinks </i>it's funny. “Come on, motherfucker, show me what you got, c'mon, do it,” and he's laughing but it's ugly, it's not sincere, he's laughing and trying to get Lafayette to kick him and Lafayette doesn't know what to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this house is a burial ground

**Author's Note:**

> okay. 
> 
> 1\. i wrote this because i done did triggered myself this morning completely on purpose and regretted it instantly and have been craving death since  
> 2\. this is 100% not relationship advice. i am serious. i know there's some fluffy bits but this isn't a good relationship. i j want to make that clear.  
> 3\. this isnt pretty. pleas dont read if yr triggered by self harm in the form of having the living shit beaten our of u. also dont read if yr triggered by suicide talk. there's also a mention of More Traditional Self Harm ( = cutting) so. dont trigger urself intentionally. its not worth it. promise. (i cant believe i , am saying this, anyways do what i say not what i do)
> 
> dont talk to me or my mentally ill sons ever again
> 
> title's from strangers by trash boat (which incidentally is also where i live, on the trash boat, in the trash,)

“Jack, Jack Laurens,” is what John says when he introduces himself, shakes Lafayette's hand firmly. Oddly formal mixed with something weirdly desperate. Loud. Lafayette introduces himself as Lafayette because that's what everyone calls him and that's what he calls himself. John looks at him for a long time. The smile he's wearing is scrunching up his face. Lafayette notes a small, pink bandaid on his cheek. “Lafayette, huh,” he says, “isn't that a place?” and Lafayette looks away. “It's sort of a nickname.” John raises his eyebrow. “Fair enough,” he says, eyebrow still raised, “I'm John, really, but you know, Jack. That's just a better name, I guess. Less formal.” Lafayette laughs, gets a quizzical look from John, whose raised eyebrow rises even higher. “My real name's Gilbert,” he explains, and John raises the other eyebrow as well. They'd disappear into his hairline but he's got a pretty high hairline and faces just aren't meant to do some things. 

“Gilbert,” says John, as if testing the name out, “I like that. I'll call you Gil.” 

Lafayette laughs. Says, “okay, John.” John gives him a lopsided smile that makes him feel like someone's carving the name into his heart in loopy letters.

-

They loop back around each other. Text a lot. Call some. They go out for drinks.

John gets angry after a few drinks – not in a mean way, but in a way that looks like he's about to pass out from suppressed rage, almost tripping over himself explaining just why he hates everything about the government, why he hates practically everything, and then somehow they stumble over and into the topic of homophobia and John's eyes glaze over. He quivers. Folds into himself. 

Lafayette reaches out with a tentative hand, takes his hand. Squeezes it. John smiles down at their intertwined hands.

-

John's small. There's no other way to put it – he's tiny. Precious. Something to be tucked away and taken care of. It's obvious to Lafayette that he's supposed to take care of his John by whatever means necessary. He's very tall and strong after all.

John doesn't like being small. John doesn't _accept_ being small. When Lafayette picks him up and carries him out of the room when he refuses to disengage from a fight that's been on the edge of getting physical for a long while now he kicks Lafayette until he has to drop him down and then he punches his chest, again and again. It's cute. John's angry, embarrassed, resentful of Lafayette's strength and height. A firecracker. _Precious_.

But there's something else about it, something desperate, something that Lafayette doesn't think he can name in John's eyes when he says “fuck, Gil, I wanted to kick his ass, I wanted to punch him in the face, _fuck_.” Something that makes Lafayette feel uneasy.

-

John lies down on the ground, limbs sprawled out on the dirty concrete. “That's gross,” says Lafayette. John sticks out his tongue and Lafayette half-kicks him in the side with the toe of his shoe, gently, gingerly. John doesn't budge, so Lafayette does it again, and then John rolls into it, puts his hip right under his shoe, presses into it. Lafayette raises one eyebrow.

“Kick me,” says John, and it could be a joke but it isn't. It's not. Something dark in it. Something too real. He's not trying to pass it as a joke. He _thinks_ it's funny. “Come on, motherfucker, show me what you got, c'mon, do it,” and he's laughing but it's ugly, it's not sincere, he's laughing and trying to get Lafayette to kick him and Lafayette doesn't know what to do. “No, thank you,” says Lafayette mildly, takes his foot off of John's body.

-

John takes him home. John shows him his shitty carpeted living room and his shittier linoleum floor kitchen with its ugly beige and yellow cabinets. John lets him kiss him and get his hands on him. John tells him to get his hands dirty with him, to put them in his mouth, to put them on his waist, to put them in his hair. Lafayette says “could never get my hands dirty with you, love,” but John doesn't think it's funny. John doesn't think it's cute.

John shoves him into a wall and tries to get him to fight back and when he won't he makes a furious noise and slams himself against the wall on the opposide side of the room, shoulder first. Lafayette's never seen anyone do that before. Doesn't feel too good about it.

-

It's not that he necessarily comes out of his shell or whatever but he does start showing more and more of his – his _darker_ side. Lafayette hates to call it that. Sometimes John will wake up and kiss him on the cheek until he wakes up and then look at him with the softest intense-eyed look until Lafayette rolls them over, kisses him properly. Other times he'll wake up and John won't touch him, will say “no” and call himself dirty and Lafayette won't know what to do. Won't know how to fix him.

John tells him he can't. Gets this look of desperation. “You can't. You can't fix me,” and Lafayette regrets wording it that way, regrets asking, regrets everything.

-

There's no cute accidental leaving clothes at his apartment or gradually working towards actually living together. After two months of them not calling themselves boyfriends John says “move in with me,” and Lafayette raises one eyebrow, something he's picked up from John, one of the things he doesn't notice anymore, but doesn't say anything because John's having one of his days, has both hands in his hair and keeps pulling at it until it's coming out in long strands. John in his stupid sweater and his ratty boxers. Lafayette says “yeah” he moves in with John. Puts his clothes in John's closet and his blankets in his bed.

-

Lafayette tries to get John to talk sometimes. It goes about as well as he was expecting it to, with John either breaking down in tears or tearing him down until he's on the verge of tears himself, and they both walk away angry.

Lafayette: What are you so _angry_ about?  
John: Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you – 

Goes on until he runs out of breath and turns red in the face and has to sit down or take a breath. Lafayette shoves him backwards to get him off his face. He might be small but he's scary sometimes, he's angry, he's willing to _fight_. John screams until he's crying and willing to let Lafayette hold him. 

He gets sad after. A little fragile. Pets Lafayette's hair, tries to make it up to him, says, “you know I love you, right,” but his voice breaks at _love_ and he always cries afterwards. It could be guilt. It probably is. Lafayette just isn't sure what exactly he's guilty about.

-

He picks John up from a bar after bar, puts his seat belt on for him, a little more forceful than he has to be. John's high with the adrenaline drop, with how good it feels to punch and get a response, how good it'll feel tomorrow when he gets to press down on the worst of the bruises. “T'was good while it lasted,” says John as Lafayette steps away, eyes glazed, a droopy smile on his face. It's weird, the way John talks about bar fights like he talks about relationships. Makes Lafayette wonder if that's what he is – a bar fight strected out too long. Someone that won't even beat him up when he asks for it.

John isn't drunk. He's never drunk for this. He wants to be razor sharp. Lafayette knows that sometimes when John _is_ drunk he'll reveal some of his secrets, he'll tell him details he doesn't want to know. He'll tell him how nice it is that he doesn't have to do the work himself. He'll roll back his sleeves and make Lafayette look at or, occassionally, touch his scars and he'll say, “this way it's a full body thing. A full body ache. God. It takes the _responsibility_ off my hands,” and Lafayette thinks “no it doesn't you stupid fuck, if you die it's still all you, it's all you” but he doesn't say it because it's not fair. 

John isn't drunk now. John's eyes are glazed over but underneath that ice he's all deep water and sharp rocks. He leans back in his seat, blinks slowly. “Hey, Gil,” he says, soft, “thank you.” Lafayette glances over at him. “Yeah,” he says slowly, “no problem.”

-

“Triggers,” says Lafayette, slowly. John pinches the bridge of his nose between his index finger and his thumb, looks pained. “Yes,” he says, “that's what they're called. Make me do all sorts of stupid shit.” Lafayette leans back a little, considers. It sounds like a good explanation. “Okay,” he says, “okay. Should I know yours or something?”

John laughs but it's not sincere, isn't amused. Lafayette looks at him until John looks away. Looks some more. John keeps looking away.

-

Lafayette researches. Gets all sorts of results back.

He lies down on the bed, on top of the covers. John spots him, gets down, cuddles into his arms. It startles Lafayette sometimes, how often they do this. Sometimes he feels like all they do is yell at each other. It makes you forget the good things – John's hair in his mouth. John's arms around him. John's leg between his thighs. They don't talk about it but it's still good. It's better than yelling. It's better than being on the opposite sides of the house because John can't stand to look at him.

“Sweetheart,” says Lafayette, and John makes a soft sound, inches in closer. “I'm sorry.” John doesn't say anything. Doesn't ask for clarification. Just takes it as it is.

-

John talks a lot when he's drunk. Talks a lot about wanting to die.

“It's not an all the time thing, y'know, more of a background thing. I don't know. More of an _I don't care_ thing. Like it'd be just the same if I died. Like. I can't feel shit.”

Lafayette doesn't know what to say so he doesn't say anything, puts his chin on top of John's head. Wraps his arms around his chest, his neck. Hopes to communicate his love through that alone. John's speech comes out a bit muffled after that, a bit slurred with how little movement Lafayette's arm is allowing his jaw.

“It just doesn't matter whether I die or not, y'know,” he says. “Don't say that,” says Lafayette. John doesn't say anything after that.

-

John never tells him his triggers but Lafayette learns them anyway.

Well – he tries to learn them. He memorizes everything, writes down every single thing that sparks up that fight reaction in him, takes note of everything that makes him angry. Then he realizes that it's not the shit that makes him angry that's the point, but rather there's a trigger and then he goes looking for a fight, goes to what he knows will make him angry and uses it as a catalyst. So it gets a little harder to tell what it is. 

Sometimes he just wakes up feeling like shit, tries to pick a fight first thing in the morning. Sometimes he'll read something on the internet and make this face that makes Lafayette want to hug him. He never hugs back. Just keeps reading until Lafayette bodily drags him away from his laptop, into the shower, gets in with him. Makes sure he puts conditioner in his hair. 

So, what he gathers from that is that John gets upset over many things, which, again, helps Lafayette exactly the amount of _jack shit_.

-

Lafayette wakes up to the sound of shattering glass.

He's used to waking up to loud sounds – living with John, it's sometimes like he's living on the set of an action movie, but there's good loud and then there's bad loud. Good loud: John's laugh, echoing through the apartment; music on too loud; John singing in the shower. Bad loud: John screaming; John breaking things. 

John is standing in the middle of the hallway, facing the wall. His knuckles are bloody. The hallway mirror is broken – most shards are on the floor but there's a few sticking out from the frame. He must have made a noise because John looks at him, then, quick, looks back at the mirror. Drops to his knees. Lafayette winces. 

“Nothing like intentionally triggering yourself at six thirty in the _fucking_ morning, am I right,” he mumbles into his hands. He looks like he's about to fall apart with how angry he is. Lafaytte doesn't know what the anger is directed at. It might be himself. It might be Lafayette. He doesn't ask. Usually it's better not to ask.

Lafayette kneels down next to him, tries to put his hand on John's shoulder. John moves away. Ah. It's one of those days. 

“John,” says Lafayette instead of asking what he'd done this time, what he'd been reading, what he'd been looking at, “stop doing this to yourself.” There's no sense in asking questions. It doesn't matter. No sense in interrogating him. 

“What difference would it _make_ ,” asks John, and it's rhetorical, it's bitter, and Lafayette tries not to flinch back. John's breath is coming out shuddery. “What _difference_ , Gil. It wouldn't make a _damn_ difference.” Lafayette doesn't say anything. Starts counting seconds in his head. Sometimes if he lets John explode he'll run out of steam and lean into his chest and let him drag him back to bed and fall asleep for a couple more hours. 

John is quiet for a long time. Lafayette leans his head back against the wall, listens to the clock ticking as the seconds go by. 

John picks at the cuts in his knuckles. “Don't do that,” says Lafayette. John keeps doing it.

-

They meet Alex in a bar. It's fitting, somehow – a bar fling. A bar fight metaphor made into flesh. John's all over that shit.

But Alex _isn't_ a fling, he becomes something else entirely. It's hard to put his finger on it but he's not a _fling_. He keeps coming over. Keeps coming back like a puppy, keeps bouncing back like a punching bag. Has something hungry in his eyes, something desperate, something scared. 

And John's _still_ all over him because Alex will fight him, Alex will punch back, Alex will work him up til he's blue in the face and screaming and not let anything go, and it's driving Lafayette up the wall. John cuddles Alex more than he does Lafayette, fits into his body better. They're almost the same height. No awkward curling around someone's body to fit in the bed. Well – there's more of that now since John's bed wasn't meant for three people but Lafayette doesn't give a _shit_. 

John taunts Alex until he breaks and pushes him into a wall and John smiles and punches Alex and then Alex pins him into the wall and punches him back and by the end of it someone's usually spitting out blood, both bruised, and Lafayette wonders if they love each other or if they just love the lack of responsibility this gives them. He wonders if it really takes the responsibility away if they care about each other. To him the thought of hurting John is worse than hurting himself, so he doesn't know how that works exactly. But then again, Alex thinks almost exclusively in the form of metaphors and John loves nothing more than a good metaphor. A kill your darlings type of thing, maybe. Kill what's good and then come back for their bones, kill those too.

“You shouldn't let him get to you like that. You shouldn't fight him like that,” is what he says to Alex. Alex has this sullen look on his face that means that he doesn't agree and he doesn't like what Lafayette's saying to him and he has no intention of stopping. Alex gets up and leaves and when he passes John he gets him into a good headlock, wrestles him into the ground, drives an elbow into his side. John lets out a gleeful little whimper, bares his throat. Alex puts his hand on it, firm, a good grip, a killing grip, as if he's considering wringing his neck, like he's thinking about killing him like a bird. All hands no stones.

John corners him later, says, “you just don't _get_ it,” and he sounds almost disappointed, like he's expecting better. It reminds Lafayette of his father. The silent sadness that pours off him. He doesn't scream, doesn't yell, doesn't punch him. Lafayette almost wishes he would. Lafayette says “no, I don't, I don't,” because he doesn't, he really doesn't, and John gets a little softer around the edges, reaches out with one disproportionally large hand, pets his face. “I know. I know.” Sounds sorry, almost, in a weirdly self-depricating way.

-

Alex talks. John talks too but like, Alex _talks_. Talks in italics. Talks with a capital T. Talks until he's blue in the face. Most importantly, he talks about his shit, by which Lafayette means he talks about both his shit and John's shit which Lafayette thinks he should resent him for but he doesn't. Instead he keeps asking questions. Alex keeps talking.

Alex: “it fucks you up, y'know, never knowing when you're gonna die, when someone's gonna find out, shit, it fucks you up so bad,” and there's something off about that, something off about not knowing when he's about to die and he doesn't know whether Alex is talking about himself or John but in any case Lafayette doesn't know what to say except for “I'm sorry” which he knows won't help jack _shit_ so he keeps his mouth shut, doesn't say anything. Alex shrugs. “Y'know, there's a difference between being actively suicidal and just not caring about whether or not you die. It's hard to find that line between them sometimes.” 

John finds out, grabs Alex by the hair, slams his head against the wall, and Alex licks his lips, wicked smile on his face, and Lafayette _knows_ it's driving him up the wall, that smile and Alex and the smell of blood – 

Lafayette walks out. Closes the door behind him.

-

So then he picks up John and Alex and buckles them both up and is rougher than he has to with both of them. With John: because he's taking Alex out of the apartment and into the streets and he's going to get him killed too; because he's tired of seeing him like this; because he's angry; because he's terrified. With Alex: because he keeps adding fuel to John's flame; because he's got a bloody nose and he's holding his wrist like it hurts; because he cares about him, fuck.

John tries to cuddle into him when he leans over his body to make sure that Alex's wrist isn't broken and Lafayette relents, hugs him for a long while. He doesn't like being angry at him. He doesn't like being mean. John is fragile, sometimes, gets sweet, gets like this. Acts like the scared boy he is. It makes his heart ache. Alex leans over and into the cuddle, gets his hand into John's hair. John doesn't drink but Alex does, smells like liquor and sweat and blood and Lafayette kisses his forehead as well in a moment of tenderness.

-

John doesn't stop slamming himself into things. “Sweetheart,” says Lafayette, “what is this?”. John twists his body to look at his own lower back, doesn't entirely succeed. Lafayette thumbs over the bruise. Alex comes to look as well. “Oh,” says Alex, “ouch.”

Ouch is accurate. It's a big bruise, angry purple, looks like it'll fade into green before it goes yellow. "Oh," says John, craning his neck, trying to see, "that." Doesn't say anything else.

Later Lafayette catches him absently walking into their kitchen table, backing up, slamming his hip against it again. He doesn't look like he notices doing it.

-

Alex with John's hands in his hair, pulling, body going with it like a ragdoll, blood running down his face from his split lip. “Kill me, do it,” dares Alex, breathless, sounds like he means it, and John stops dead in his tracks, lets go, backs away. Puts a good ten feet between them. Alex slides down the wall.

John won't talk about it to either of them. Alex shrugs. Lafayette tries to touch him. John hides away from both of them, gets into the supply closet. Locks the door. How they have a lock on the closet door Lafayette has no idea. John stays in there for a long while. When he comes back he seems a little calmer, lets them cuddle into his sides, allows them to sandwich him. Plays with Alex's hair absently, lets Lafayette play with his. 

“No killing,” says John eventually, and Alex says “okay. Okay.” And for some reason, to Lafayette, it sounds like somehow there's some sort of intimacy to that that he'll never be able to be a part of.

-

Alex and John asleep, completely tangled up in each other. Bruised all over. Lafayette stares. It tugs at his heartstrings. These two boys he loves. These boys that love each other, he supposes. In one way or another.

He lies down, settles next to Alex. He doesn't stir, doesn't open his eyes, but he rolls over slightly, throws his arm over Lafayette. John makes a needy sound, cuddles closer into Alex, who in turn curls his body into a tight little ball, squeezes under Lafayette's arm. Lafayette puts his hand in his hair carefully. Alex makes a noise into his neck. John draps his arm over Alex until his fingers touch Lafayette's face.

Lafayette closes his eyes very tightly. Tries to sleep.

Doesn't quite succeed.

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me on twitter/tumblr @lcfayctte i need to lie down


End file.
